Headed by Ben Stubbs with the lantern the young adventurers rushed after Frank into the open, determined to ascertain if possible the meaning of the strange and startling interruption to their peaceful evening. It was in vain, however, that they searched for any indication of the presence of a human being. In the blackness it was indeed impossible to make more than a cursory examination of the surroundings of the hut.

At daybreak, however, after a restless night, Frank, who had risen as soon as the first gray of dawn made things dimly visible, uttered a cry of surprise from outside the hut. Hastily flinging off their coverings and slipping into their clothes the others ran out.

“Look here,” exclaimed Frank, “what do you make of this?”

He held up a small bottle in which was a bit of red flannel, a chicken feather, some rusty nails and several dried grasshoppers.

“I found it put right to one side of the door sill,” he explained. “How we missed finding it last night I don’t know.”

“What can it mean?” chorused the other boys peering eagerly at the strange object.

“Looks as if some mischievous kid had put it there,” suggested Billy Barnes.

“I don’t think there are likely to be any ’mischievous kids,’ as you call them, about here, Billy,” said Frank with a smile.

“Well, I give it up,” said Harry; “I never was much good at reading riddles.”

“Just let me look at it a moment, shipmate,” put in Ben Stubbs quietly. “I kinder think I have an inkling of what it means.”

He took the bottle and examined it carefully. Then he nodded his head sagely.

“It’s some kind ’er voodoo for certain shu,” exclaimed Pork Chops. “I wouldn’t touch dat lilly bottle fo’ all de money in dis yer worl’.”

“What did you say it was, Pork Chops, you inky pirate?” asked Ben, turning on him.

“Lan’ sakes, don’ snap me up dat er way, Marse Stubbs,” gasped the old negro, “I only said I wouldn’ touch dat bottle. It’s voodoo fo’ shu’.”

“Right you are, my boy,” cried Ben, “only it’s not voodoo; but it’s something very like it. It’s obeah.“

“Obeah!” exclaimed Frank, “what on earth is that, Ben?”

“Why, it’s a form of witchcraft used by the ignorant negroes of the West Indies and Bahama islands,” explained Ben. “It’s meant as a warning to any one on whose doorstep it is placed. In this case, as I take it, it means, ‘Don’t come no further.’”

“Well,” laughed Frank, “it will take more than a bottle of dried bugs and old chicken feathers to make us turn back, and anyway, how comes a West Indian negro here? If it was a Seminole now——”

“That’s a puzzle to me too,” remarked Ben. “Then Seminoles don’t use nothing like this that ever I heard of.—What’s that?” he broke off suddenly.

The cause of the interruption was a great fluttering of wings from the edge of the clearing and several herons flapped heavily out of the woods.

“There’s someone in there,” cried Frank.

“Right you are, my boy, and I propose that we put an end to this mystery business and find out who it is. Volunteers for the job.”

Of course everyone was anxious to penetrate the mysterious cause of the birds’ flight, which they felt had something to do with the placing of the bottle and the tapping on the door, and a few minutes later, heavily armed and ready for any surprise that might be sprung on them, the little party sallied across the clearing and into the dark mass of forest.

They had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile or so, and Ben Stubbs had remarked that they must have pretty well reached the limits of the island, when there was a great crashing of the dense undergrowth immediately in front of them and a human figure, bent almost double, was seen darting through the brush with the rapidity of a scared rabbit.

“Stop, or we’ll fire,” cried Frank.

But the figure kept on running. Frank was in a quandary. Of course he had not meant to carry out his intention and the fact that the man kept on running put him in an awkward position. They could not kill the man; yet if they did not fire he would escape from them and it was most essential they should capture and question him if it could be done.

Ben Stubbs raised his rifle and leveled it. Frank caught his arm and dragged it down.

“None of that,” he said sharply, “if we can’t get him without shooting him we’ll have to let him get away.”

Ben laughed.

“Don’t git excited, shipmate,” he remarked coolly, “I was only going ter give him a scare. Once more Ben raised his rifle and just as the fugitive was vanishing from view sent a bullet whistling over his head that nicked off several twigs and sent them scattering in a shower on his neck. With a loud screech of terror the fleeing figure flopped down and groveled on the ground.

“I’se a British subjec’.” he yelled, “don’t do me no harm, massa, I’m a subjec’ of the King.”

“Get up, you black rascal,” roared Ben, for by this time they had come up to the groveling figure and saw that he was even blacker than the redoubtable Pork Chops, who had run back to camp at top speed as soon as they had sighted the fugitive.

“Get up,” he went on, “we are United Statesers, and the king won’t do you no good now. Who are you and what do you want around our camp?”

Tremblingly the negro got to his feet. He was a strange figure. A palpable negro he yet wore the garb of a Seminole Indian. His shirt, with its tail flapping outside a pair of buckskin trousers, bright-colored turban, and buckskin moccasins were the customary clothes of the tribe.

“Well,” said Frank, as this nondescript figure stood facing them, beads of perspiration streaming down its face, “what have you got to say for yourself?”

“Snooping around and putting bottles of dessicated bugs on our front stoop,” indignantly cried Billy Barnes.

“I didn’t mean no harm, massa, didn’t really mean no harm at all. Me berry good ole man. Bahama nigger I am.”

“Well, what are you doing here, then?” demanded Ben.

“Don’ shoot me, massa, an’ I tell you eberyt’ing,” sputtered the captive, terrified at Ben’s ferocious expression. Put in more intelligible language than the Bahama negro used his story was this:

Suspected unjustly some years before of having killed the captain of a sponging vessel of which he was one of the crew he had fled into the Everglades to avoid lynching. He had fallen into the hands of a tribe of Seminoles, off on an otter hunt, when he was almost famished and had been treated by them with kindness. In fact so well pleased had he been with his surroundings that he had taken a wife from the tribe and was now one of them.

Several days before the outposts had brought news of the approach of the adventurers into the interior and the Seminoles had at once made preparations to turn them back. The Bahaman, whose name, by the way, he confided was “Quatty,” was singled out as being the best spy they could send inasmuch as he could speak English and would understand the conversation of the strangers. He had landed on the island the afternoon before and when he saw that one of the party was a black conceived the idea of working “obeah” on him. He knew that if the darky was a West Indian, which he suspected, he would really interpret the ominous nature of the sign.

“But why are you so anxious to keep us out?” asked Harry, “we mean no harm to you.”

“Wall, dem ign’nant sabages,” grandiloquently stated Quatty, “has obtained de idea dat you is in some way connected wid some white men what came down in the ’glades tree months ago or so.”

The boys started eagerly.

“Some white men that came into the ’glades?” repeated Frank.

“Yes, massa,” said Quatty, “dot’s de bery meaning I intend to convey.”

“Where are these white men?” demanded Frank and Harry in the same breath.

“Long way from here, far in de ’glades. Dem sabages is werry much scairt of dem,” went on Quatty, “one time dey go near dere camp and some man he throw something make noise like de worl’ he comin’ to an en’ and blow big hole in de groun’.”

“It must be the men we are after,” exclaimed Frank tensely.

“And the stuff they threw was Chapinite,” added Harry.

“Are they still here?” was Frank’s next question. He was keenly afraid of receiving a negative answer, and his voice almost trembled as he spoke.

“Yes, sah, dey’s still here shu nuff,” rejoined Quatty. “We never go near dem since dat day, but all de time we see smoke and at night dere is red flames go up from de island where dey camp. We tink dey debbils for sho’.”

The boys were almost wild with excitement. Even Ben Stubbs’ face lit up at this unexpected good fortune. It meant that instead of wasting days seeking the abductors of Lieutenant Chapin and the stealers of the formula they would be able, if this Bahama negro could guide them, to go direct to the spot after they had laid a plan of campaign.

“Could you guide us to this place, Quatty?” asked Frank.

“Wid de greates’ of ease,” replied the negro, quite proud of the impression he had produced, “but what fo’ yo wan’ to go dere?”

Without telling him too many details of their mission Frank outlined their errand to him and, as it might be important to secure the co-operation of the Seminoles, he told Quatty to reassure them as to the object of the intrusion of the adventurers. After Quatty had been given something substantial for his trouble, from Frank’s bill-roll, he dived into the forest with the promise to return that afternoon with the chief of the tribe. He was positive, he told the boys, that the tribe would have no objection to their presence in the Everglades if they really meant to drive out the men who, as Quatty put it, he and the tribe believed to be “debbils.”

The rest of the morning was spent in getting the field wireless and its lofty pole in position and joining the framework of the Golden Eagle II. With such energy did the boys work that dinner-time was forgotten and by afternoon things had reached a stage where the ship was ready for her golden wing coverings to be laced on. The work of placing the engine and truing it up would have to be left to the next day, for even Frank was not sanguine enough to believe that they could accomplish that difficult task by night or he would have ordered work to go on without a let up.

True to his promise shortly before sundown Quatty reappeared at Walrus Camp with a tall dignified-looking Seminole dressed in the same manner as himself. The Indian could not talk English but Quatty acted as interpreter and the conversation went on swimmingly. The chief, whose name sounded like O-shi-ho-wi, agreed not to molest the boys if they pledged their words not to annoy the tribe or try to spy into their customs. This the boys readily agreed to and the chief then produced a pipe. After gravely taking a whiff he handed it to Ben Stubbs whom he regarded approvingly and Ben in turn, after a puff or two, handed it to the boys.

Lathrop looked at it in disgust.

“I can’t smoke it,” he said.

“Go on,” said Ben, “just a whiff will do. The Injuns think that if you’ve smoked a pipe with them you won’t break any promise you have made. If you won’t you’ll insult them.”

“Well, if that’s the case, all right,” said Lathrop, and, with a wry face, he took a pull at the pipe and then suffered a violent fit of coughing. The others in their turn took a whiff. The only ones who appeared to have any relish for it, however, were Ben Stubbs and Pork Chops, the latter of whom said patronizingly to Quatty:

“Ah’ve got some good terbaccer in de hause, nigger, if yo’ wan’ to smoke somethin’ better dan dese yar shavings.”

“Ah consider dat berry good terbaccer, tank you, sah,” replied Quatty with dignity, “and ah’ll tank you ter keep any cricketscisms to yo’sef.”

With a stately gesture the chief signified that negotiations were at an end as soon as the pipe-smoking had been concluded. He examined the framework of the Golden Eagle II with much interest.

“Huh-man-bird,” was his comment, “canoe better. Not so far to fall.”

There still remained one bit of business to be done and both Frank and Harry anticipated some little trouble over it—this was the retention of Quatty as their guide to the ’glade islet on which the abductors had set up their plant. The chief consented to his being retained, but Quatty himself was more doubtful. The promise of a canoe, however, as well as a good round sum of money decided him. He would go. But he wanted to know how the boys meant to get into the interior of the ’glades. From where they were at the moment it would take many days of threading intricate water lanes, he explained, to arrive at their destination.

With a half smile at the explosion he knew was about due Frank replied:

“Yes, but we don’t mean to go by canoe. We shall travel by air.”

The negro turned an actual gray with perturbation.

“No, sah,” he exclaimed, “no, sah. Yo won’ go froo no air wid me. Ah’m too fond of mah life to go skeedaddlin’ round in de clouds in dat contraption.”

All the persuasions the boys could think of were of no avail. Quatty obstinately refused to reconsider his determination not to go up in the air-ship. Finally a happy thought struck Frank.

“Get one of the rifles,” he whispered to Harry.

The boy hastened into the hut and reappeared with a fine automatic. His own in fact.

“Now, Quatty,” commanded Frank, “watch.”

He raised the rifle to his shoulder and pressing the trigger, fired the whole magazine. He reloaded it and handed it to the amazed negro.

“Now you try it,” he said.

A grin of huge delight spread over the black’s face as the automatic weapon shot out its rain of lead. As for the chief he stood stock still, but a look of amazement spread over even his stolid countenance at the exhibition.

“Well, what do you think of it?” asked Frank.

“Dat’s de mostest wonderfulest gun I eber seed,” confessed the darky.

“It will be yours if you guide us to the island where the ‘debbils’ are,” said Frank.

The old darky sighed.

“Ah get de money an’ de canoe as well?” he said at last.

“Of course,” said Frank.

“Den, massa, I’se you man, fo’ I nebber could resist a good gun, and,” he added, as though he found consolation in the thought, “ef I break my neck yo breaks yohs too.”